


I Got You, Babe

by gillyandersons



Category: Holby City
Genre: F/F, Fireworks, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-29 07:58:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8481712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gillyandersons/pseuds/gillyandersons
Summary: Bernie and fireworks are not a good mix





	

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so i've not suffered from PTSD but I have suffered from panic attacks, so i've sort of wrote this from my own experience. I hope I have done it justice, and if not please inform and educate me.

You find yourself tapping the steering wheel excitedly as you wait for the lights to change to green. You absolutely love Bonfire night, and always have. In the distance, you watch as a bright red and blue firework crackles, smiling as it lights up the sky in a pretty pink glow. 

Bonfire Night is, perhaps, the most underrated “holiday” in your opinion. You love everything about it, and have for as long as you could remember. There was a different kind of atmosphere surrounding November 4th. Christmas was stressful - even more so from a medical point of view. And Halloween was fun when the kids were little and could really get into it, but now you usually just sat in the dark with a glass of wine most years. 

The lights change to green and you take off, continuing your journey home. AAU was relatively quiet today, and the universe seemed to be on your side as you're able to make it home at a decent hour. 

There's a firework display on at the local park, which you've been looking forward to since before Halloween. You had missed it last year due to work, and everyone had raved about it for days afterwards and you’d felt as though you'd missed out. 

This is your first Bonfire Night with Bernie, and you cannot wait to watch the display with her. The thought of her all wrapped up in her scarf and her beanie, looking so goddamn soft and adorable sends a warmth through your body. 

Her shift had finished two hours ago, and you hope she managed to pick up some sparklers on her way home. 

Bernie's car is already on the drive, so you pull up in your regular spot beside hers. 

You had expected the lights to be on when you get home - they usually are when Bernie's shift finishes before yours. You come home to either a home cooked dinner (depending on what mood she's in and how tired she is) or takeout and the lights are usually always on. Even in Summer, which drives you up the bloody wall. 

But tonight, you're met with a dark house. You wonder if maybe Bernie has nipped out, or if she's running late, but her car is in the drive and the closest shop is at least a 15 minute walk. And Bernie's shift started at 4am, so you doubt she's out anywhere. 

Letting yourself in, the house is both dark and cold and it's almost as if Bernie's not even been home. 

“Bern?” you call, stepping into the vestibule and kicking the front door shut behind you. “Bernie?” you shout again, a bit louder this time, flicking on the hall light. 

The house is silent, eerily so, the only noise coming from your keys clanging in the bowl by the phone and the occasional bang from distant fireworks. 

This is odd, even for Bernie. Jason isn't home, but he had told you at lunch he was going out with his girlfriend tonight to see a movie as neither of them are big fans of fireworks. 

“Bern, are you home?” you feel a bit stupid asking, but something feels  _ off _ and you just can't put your finger on it. 

You're about to check the living room when there's a particularly loud bang from a firework, immediately followed by something clattering in the kitchen.  

“ _ Shit _ ” you hear Bernie groan and your stomach drops. You run to the kitchen and can just make out the figure of a body hunched under the table in the pitch black darkness. 

There's another even louder bang, followed by a whimper from Bernie. And that's when it clicks. 

Shit. You never even thought of this. You flick on the light and the sight that greets you breaks your heart. 

Bernie is cowering under the table, her knees pulled to her chest and her hands over her ears. She jumps at every little bang and crackle and you want to kick yourself for not even realising that fireworks could have some kind of effect on her. 

You run over to her and she jumps at first, but quickly accepts your open embrace. She's trembling and rigid and her breathing is heavy and erratic and  _ oh God _ she's having a full blown panic attack. 

You've never seen her like this, and she's never really shown any signs of PTSD, which is probably why you never even thought of it anyway. She's always strong and got to be this big macho army doctor and she acts like nothing affects her. 

You hold her, squeezing her tight and rocking her gently - not really knowing how to react to her. But it seems to be working. There's another loud bang and Bernie jumps. 

“Shhhhhhh” you whisper into her mess of blonde locks. “Shhhhh, it's okay. You're okay” you tell her, focusing on keeping your breathing even and steady in hopes she will pick up on it and copy you. 

“Shit,  _ fuck _ !” Bernie cries as a massive boom erupts from outside the kitchen window. The kitchen is momentarily lit up as the orange firework explodes right above the house. 

She grips onto your shirt, a bundle of the leopard print material in her hand and buries her face into your shoulder. It's damp and it's only now you realise that she's crying. 

Bernie’s grip on you is like a vice, tightening with every random and unpredictable bang going off. But it's so damn quiet in the house and that's not helping her at all. 

“Bernie, sweetheart” you kiss the top of her head, wincing as she squeezes you a bit too tightly. “Bern, i'm going to turn the radio on, okay? But i'm going to need you to let go of me”. Her grip tightens even more, the fear almost paralysing her. “Less than 30 seconds i’ll be gone, I promise”. 

If she hears you, she doesn't acknowledge it. She's still gripping you with such a ferocity that it breaks your heart. You've never seen her like this and you honestly have no fucking clue what to do. But the bangs from the fireworks are getting louder and more frequent now and you know that you have to get the the radio on. 

You've got to try and drown out the bangs and this is the only thing you can think of. 

Bernie makes no effort to move, or loosen her grip on you and you're effectively stuck between her and the dining chairs. And Bernie's strong on any normal day, but the fear and the PTSD has turned her into the fucking Hulk and she's got a death grip on your blouse. You could try and pry yourself from her grip, but any little movement frightens her. 

“Bernie, the bangs are just going to keep getting louder from here on out. I need you to let me go, just for 30 seconds, so I can try and help you.  _ Please,  _ sweetie”. 

For a few moments, she doesn't react and you're really starting to worry about her. But then she does. She loosens her grip just enough for you to slip out from under the table. You hear the familiar whistle of a firework, and you can tell it's going to be a pretty loud and impressive one as you race toward the radio. 

You switch it on and turn it up full blast - it was already pretty loud to begin with so it's clear who was listening to it last. ABBA blasts through the speakers and you watch the firework explode through the window, but thankfully hear no bang. 

The radio seems to be working on that front. At least for now. 

You make your way back to Bernie, and for the first time she looks up at you. There's a fear in her eyes that you've never seen before, her rosy cheeks stained with tears. 

“S-serena” she croaks as you pull her back into a strong and comforting embrace. There's something in her voice, pure terror and she's practically begging you to help her at this point. 

“Shhhhhhhh, Bernie, it's okay” you tell her again, resuming the rocking motion from before. She buries her face into the curve of your shoulder, her tears once again soaking through the material of your shirt. “It's okay, sweetie, I've got you. You're safe. It's fine. Everything's fine”. 

You can still hear the occasional bang over the music, but it's faint in comparison. But Bernie still jumps with every single one. Her breathing is still heavy and erratic and she's started struggling for breath. 

“Just focus on the radio, listen to the music, not the fireworks, okay? And try to steady your breathing. Try and match mine”. 

She's still trembling and you run your hands up and down her arms. The motion startled her at first, but she relaxes into your touch. You can feel her trying to relax, to focus on the radio and to try and calm her breathing down, but every bang scares her and she jumps and goes tense. 

“Shit!”

“It’s okay, Bernie” you tell her, soothing her after every single one. 

You don't know how long you're there for, but it's a while and Bernie isn't calming down. She's got herself  _ that  _ worked up that you are honestly considering taking her into the hospital or asking Raf to bring you a sedative. 

Fuck, you're even considering calling Marcus to ask if it's ever happened before and if so what normally helps her. 

You feel so out of your element here and completely useless. Bernie makes you feel so calm and safe and you can't even do that for her when she most needs it. And you'd do what you do with Jason when he gets worked up, but it's Bernie who is the one who helps him calm down. She's good at that. There's something about her that puts people at ease, despite the big macho army medic front she puts on. 

Bernie coughs, pulling you from your thoughts. She's coughing and spluttering and gasping for air. Clearly holding her and hoping for the best isn't going to work. Something in you snaps and before you know it, you've got your hands on Bernie's cheeks with your forehead resting against hers. 

“Look at me” you tell her, but her eyes are still screwed shut. “Berenice Griselda Wolfe, look. at. me.” you punctuate each word. Your voice is firm and strong and this seems to get her attention. She opens her eyes, the deep brown eyes that are usually so full of laughter and love and life are filled with fear and dread and are pleading with you for help. 

“Look at me” you tell her again, and she does. She's looking into your eyes, still gasping for breath. “You're going to make yourself really sick if you don't at least  _ try  _ to calm down, okay?”. 

She nods somewhat, her grip on your collar intensifying. 

“I know it's hard, but you need to try and copy my breathing.

The display from the park must have started because the bangs are loud, even above ABBA singing  _ Waterloo _ . Bernie jumps out her skin, banging her head on the table in the process. 

“They're so…  _ loud _ ” Bernie cries, causing you to grip her tighter, your fingers getting lost in her wavy, blonde locks. 

“They're just fireworks. They can't hurt you. You're home and you're safe and i'm never going to let anything happen to you, you hear me?”. 

The thought of Bernie in a war zone is always painful, and you never let yourself think of that too much. She literally  _ died _ after being blown up by that IED, and she's never really talked about it so you don't know just  _ how  _ traumatic it was for her. But you don't let yourself think of that right now, you can't. You have to remain as calm as you can right now if you've got any hope of getting Bernie out of this panic attack. 

“I know they're loud, but focus on  _ me _ . Not them. Me”. 

She nods and closes her eyes again as another firework goes off. She's still clutching your collar, and it's starting to strangle you a bit. You reach up and lace your fingers through hers, squeezing her hand and letting it rest in your lap. You take her other hand and place it flat against your chest, a vain attempt at hoping to help her match her breaths with yours. 

“Take a deep breath” you instruct her. “In through your nose, out through your mouth” you take a deep breath in, and then exhale deeply. Once, twice, three times. 

Bernie starts copying you on the fourth one. 

In through her nose. Out through her mouth. 

She struggles, but eventually manages it. 

In through her nose. Out through her mouth. In through her nose. Out through her mouth. In through her nose. Out through her mouth. 

She's starting to visibly calm down, slowly. She continues to take deep breaths, and she's no longer struggling at this point. 

The radio changes and it starts playing  _ I Got You Babe _ and it's only now that you realise it's playing the CD Jason made of Bernie's favourite songs. 

Despite the fact she  _ still  _ doesn't know the difference between Cher and Dusty Springfield, Bernie’s got a strong fondness for this song. You both have. It’s sort of become  _ your song _ , something you both jokingly sing along to. It always makes you so happy and Bernie always find it hilarious and is always grinning like an idiot, so you decide that it’s worth a shot. 

“ _ They say we're young and we don't know, we won't find out until we grow”  _ you start, singing along with the Cher parts - Bernie’s  _ always  _ Sonny (her choice, not yours). Bernie stays quiet as Sonny sings the parts she usually sings, but you see a small smile work its way onto her face as she listens and it must be working. “ _ I got you babe _ ” you continue, placing a soft, loving kiss on Bernie’s temple. “ _ T _ _ hey say our love won't pay the rent, before it's earned, our money's all been spent”.  _

“ _ I guess that's so, we don't have a plot _ ” Bernie mumbles along quietly, “But at least I'm sure of all the things we got”. 

“ **_Babe, I got you babe, I got you babe_ ** ”

Bernie sniffles, wiping at her nose and eyes as the song continues to play out in the background. She snuggles close into your side, resting her head on your shoulder as she just sits and listens to the song in silence.

The lyrics seem to hit closer to home tonight and she laces her fingers with yours as you both sit in a comfortable silence. You stroke her knuckles with your thumb, and she nuzzles her face into your neck.

You sit, just listening, to the rest of the song. Bernie is snug against your side and she seems, for the most part, okay now. Her breathing is normal, she's stopped trembling and she's no longer jumping with every bang and crackle in the air. 

Her head is heavy against your shoulder, but it's a good heavy. You welcome the weight and you revel in the feeling of her leaning against you. It's not often that Bernie is vulnerable, it's usually her comforting you. You kiss the top of her head every so often, feeling her smile softly against your collarbone with each kiss. 

“I’m sorry” she says sheepishly, not looking at you and instead focusing on the lint on her sleeve. 

You almost burst out laughing. What on  _ Earth  _ is she apologising for? It's ridiculous to you that she feels the need to apologise for her PTSD. But this is Bernie, the woman isn't exactly good at processing her feelings. Granted she's getting better, but tonight is proof she's still got a lot to work through. 

“Bern-” You start, about to tell her how ridiculous she's being, that she should  _ never  _ apologise. But she cuts you off. 

“-It's just… The fireworks, the unexpected bangs in the dark. I was fine at first, I was getting ready to cook dinner - I had this whole romantic evening planned because I know how excited you've been and then,” she takes a deep breath, her eyes sparkling with a new wave of tears. “a car backfired and 3 fireworks went off in a row and I was right back  _ there _ ” she laughs bitterly, swiping at a lone tear that's escaping down her cheek. “I  _ knew  _ they were fireworks but I-I…  _ stupid _ ”. 

“Oh, Bern” you sigh, pulling her into an embrace. She sniffles again, wiping at her cheeks as more tears betray her. You can tell she's trying to hold it all together and be strong but her body is betraying her and breaking down. “Did you ever talk to anybody after the IED?” you ask. 

She shakes her head. 

“The army offered me counselling but I said no, I was fine. And I was, at least I thought I was. But it's been almost 2 years”. 

“This is serious, Bernie. You have PTSD, which isn't surprising really given everything you went through. I thought i was going to have to take you into hospital or get Raf to bring a sedative or something! You need to speak to somebody”. 

“I know” she nods in agreement. Her tone is reluctant, she's never liked asking for help and not being in control. But you figure it must be  _ bad  _ for her to willingly admit she needs help. You're glad she has though, because you don't want to fight with her about this. “I really am sorry, Serena”. 

“Bernie,  _ stop _ . Don't you  _ dare  _ apologise. This was something that was completely out of your hands, okay? None of what happened tonight was your fault, you hear me?” she bites her lip, her eyes still glistening with tears as she casts her eyes down to her lap, unable to look at you. You know she's ashamed, blaming herself. She always does, blames herself for things she has no control over. It drives you mad. 

A tear rolls down her cheek and lands on her hand in her lap. You hook your finger under her chin and tilt her head so she looks up at you. Her lip quivers, tears streaming down her face quicker than you or she can catch them. 

Right now she resembles a terrified little girl, lost and confused and begging for comfort. 

She must be able to read the pain in your eyes, because she starts sobbing again. 

“I was so scared, Serena” she chokes, a strangled sob escaping her. 

“Oh, Bern” you coo, pulling her against your chest and holding her. She sobs hard against you, her shoulders heaving as she cries. There's nothing you can do but hold her, let her ride it out. You tell her that she's fine, that everything is going to be okay and kiss her on the forehead. 

She needs to let it out, she's been bottling it up for God only knows how long. 

She's breaking your heart and all you want to do is cry with her. But you don't. She needs you to be strong right now.  _ You  _ need you to be strong right now. 

You decide that you’ll both, or at the very least, Bernie, will call in sick tomorrow. You’ll tell Hanssen that Bernie had a bad reaction to the fireworks, he’ll understand and will be discreet and sympathetic towards her situation. He likes Bernie, so you know he will go above and beyond for her should he ever need to. 

The tiles on the kitchen floor are cold and hard and your back hurts, but you’ll stay here all damn night if you have to. 

Bernie seems to have stopped crying at this point, and is just cuddled against your side. She's tracing the leopard print pattern on your blouse with her finger and you can't help but smile at how bloody adorable she looks. 

“I’ll get it dry cleaned, I promise” Bernie sniffles, pointing to the black mascara stains in various places on your shirt. 

You roll your eyes. Because of course  _ this  _ is what Bernie is most concerned about. Either that or she's deflecting. Probably the latter. 

“How are you feeling?” you ask, looking down at her. She yawns. 

“Tired” she says, her eyes heavy. 

You're not surprised. She's been awake almost 20 hours and she's had a full on breakdown on top of that too. 

“Why don't we have an early night?” you suggest, you're pretty beat too, although you know you won't be sleeping tonight. You'll be watching over Bernie like a hawk. 

“That sounds nice” she nods. 

“Good, i’ll run you a bath” you say, getting to your feet and pulling Bernie up with you. 

You're about to leave and run her a bath when her hand wraps around your wrist, halting you mid step. She pulls you back and at first you think she's afraid to be alone or something, but then she wraps her arms around your neck in a bone crushing hug. 

“I love you  _ so  _ much, Serena Campbell” she mumbles against your neck, squeezing you as though her life depends upon it. “So,  _ so _ much” she says again, pulling away slightly and looking you in the eye before she leans in and kisses you. 

Her lips are soft and warm and inviting and they taste like her tears. And she's kissing you like she's never kissed you before, she's saying what words can't say. Because she's not good with words, she never has been. 

And you've never felt so loved or needed or  _ appreciated  _ in all your life. 

“Thank you, baby” she said with such sincerity that it makes your heart ache. “Not just for tonight. For everything. I probably don't tell you enough just  _ how  _ much I love you. I don't deserve you, Serena”. 

You want to tell her to be quiet, to stop being so silly, but she leans in and kisses you again. It's a while before you actually leave her to go run her a bath. 

Bath salts, candles, bubbles, the whole she-bang! But if anybody deserves a nice, relaxing bath, it's Bernie. 

She's poured you a glass of Shiraz and started dinner when you get downstairs and you honestly couldn't love the woman more. You kiss her once more before she leaves to go have her bath, and she already tastes of smoke and Shiraz and you wonder how many glasses she's had already. 

You carry on with dinner, a quick and simple pasta, and by the time it's ready Bernie comes down in her( _ your _ ) fluffy penguin pyjamas. You eat dinner in the living room instead of the dining room, watching old episodes of QI on Netflix. You pretend not to be slightly bitter when Bernie gets more answers right than you. 

It's a nice, calming rest of the night. The TV has been on super loud, you’ll have to apologise to the neighbours tomorrow, to drown out the fireworks, and Bernie seems like she's actually okay. 

She does the dishes when you're getting changed and then she comes and joins you in bed. She looks exhausted, drained both physically and mentally. She's definitely not going to work tomorrow, whether she likes it or not. 

“Here” you say, handing her Jason's iPod. “We can't have the TV blaring all night because the neighbors will probably lodge a noise complaint”. 

Bernie grins, obviously remembering the last time that happened. You had been so mortified that you hadn't been able to face Mrs Rogers, the 84 year old woman who lives next door, for weeks. Bernie on the other hand found it hilarious, and more endearing than anything else. 

“Hey, that was all  _ you  _ last time” she quirks her brow. “You're the one who couldn't keep it down”. 

“Yes well,  _ you're  _ the one who caused me to… scream so loud. So technically it's your fault… And anyway, you're deflecting”. 

Bernie simply grins at you with that goofy, shit eating grin that you both love and hate so much. 

“Anyway, as I was saying, we can't have the television booming all night long so I thought maybe this would help” you shrug, tapping the thin metal device in Bernie's hands. 

You're not entirely sure what's on there, you've got no clue how to work the damn thing, but Bernie's not got a very  _ wide _ range of musical knowledge, so you figure she won't be too bothered by whatever's on there. 

She smiles and looks genuinely touched. She leans over and kisses you on the cheek, nuzzling her nose against your jaw. 

“Thank you, babe” she whispers, plugging the buds in her ears. “Dear  _ GOD _ what is this?!” she exclaims, her eyes widening as music blares in her ears. “This is truly terrible” she says skipping through songs until she finds one she likes, or can at least stand to listen to. 

You lean over and turn the bedside lamp off before snuggling with Bernie. It's not often she lets you be the big spoon, but she is tonight and it feels nice. She's actually letting you take care of her for once. You wrap your arms around her waist as she shimmies closer to you, so her back is flush against your front. You bury your face into the back of her neck - she smells like a mixture of vanilla and smoke and  _ home _ . 

“G'night, babe” she mumbles sleepily, her words slightly slurred and muddled by the pillow. 

You kiss the back of her neck in response, knowing she can't hear you anyway as she listens to Jason's iPod. You make a mental note to buy Bernie her own iPod tomorrow, seeing as it seems to be coming in handy right now. 

  
She falls asleep pretty quickly, and you pray to a God you don't even believe in that she has a good night's sleep. That her slumber isn't plagued by nightmares or flashbacks from her time in Afghanistan. But if it is, you're right here next to her, where you will always be. You kiss the back of her neck again, for no other reason than because you're so overwhelmed with love and devotion for the other woman right now. You know she probably has a long road ahead of her, it's not going to be easy, but you're going to be there every step of the way. 


End file.
